Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Kitchen Warrior
by Minikimii
Summary: In which John Watson discovers that Sherlock Holmes may or may not know how to make strawberry jam from scratch. SH/JW Rating may change.
1. Part One

Well, um. I'm back. And, yeah, for those of you author subscribed, I know this isn't an update of Call Me, or even a KH fanfic for that matter, but I just finished writing the next chapter (finally!) last night and just send it off to be beta'd right now. So, in the mean time, indulge me in this new fandom of mine and my love for the gorgeous, elegant, sylph of a man who is Benedict Cumberbatch.

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><p><strong>Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Kitchen Warrior<strong>

"Sherlock, is there a reason there are jars of red goop all over th-what the hell are you-are you _cooking_?"

John Watson, poor fellow, rounded the corner to the kitchen of his shared flat to see his flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, armed with a wooden spoon and a box of cornstarch. On the kitchen counter top was heaping bowls of chopped strawberries and large cups of sugar.

"I'm not cooking, John, I'm testing the variable thickness of cornstarch when mixed in a heterogeneous mixture as such (he gestures to a medium sized pot on the stove) with a spectrum of applied heats and times, and before you ask why: it's for a case."

"Fine, fine," John sighed as he walked out of the kitchen and up he stairs to his room. "You just take your merry time, then."

Moving upstairs turned out to be a bit dismal tonight, as the heat from the kitchen had risen and become trapped in his bedroom on the second floor.

Head hung heavy, John stripped off his sweater and threw the bundled fabric across the room. He collapsed on the bed in the middle of his one-room sanctuary, and pressed the balls of his hands to his eyes. After a day at the clinic and unspoken tension between himself and Sarah, the last thing he needed was a sweltering hot kitchen filled with various jars of what looked like blocks of blood Jell-O.

_When did he even gather the motivation to buy all those things in the first place?_

John Watson flipped over onto his stomach and lay with his face pressed into his pillow. The entire flat stank strongly of strawberries, and were it not for the fact that he knew it was impossible, John could've sworn there was a sheen of a thick, pink-hued moisture that hung over the wallpaper and curtains of even his own bedroom. Upstairs.

The army man picked himself up from off the bed and went to go pick up his shirt from where it lay, crumpled, in the corner of his bedroom. There would be no sense in wearing the damned hot thing now, as the entire house was a one-man sweatshop/factory for what looked like strawberry preserve. Strawberry insides. Guts.

[But they were sweet-smelling guts.]

So, really, nothing too far out of the ordinary.

Methodically, John began to turn his sweater right-side-out again and smoothed out the shoulders and arms until it looked as though the cotton blend had been pressed into a neat, droopy T smoothed out against his bed. Then, like a good little soldier ignoring the sounds of a frenzied countdown, subsequent cheering, and then crashing in the kitchen downstairs, he folded the sweater into a neat square and placed it atop his other clothes in his laundry basket.

"John!" hollered a clearly irritated Sherlock from the floor below, "get two washcloths, one wet, one dry. Now!"

In a flurry, still-shirtless John had procured the items demanded, and was—as a result—standing in the kitchen, staring down at an uncharacteristically disheveled looking consulting detective covered in red strawberry goop. The thick substance had somehow made its way past the apron and down Sherlock's deep plum-colored shirt, on his face, and in his hair. Of particular note was the glob that clung right against Sherlock's left eyebrow, just under the fringe of his hair.

"Did you victory jump and knock something over?"

"Hand me the wet cloth, John. I haven't got all day."

The doctor nearly handed his flatmate the cloth on the order, but hesitated just as it was out of his reach.

"You know what, Sherlock? I don't think I will. I'm going to go clean the floors with these and you can go clean yourself up with the towels on the counter."

Now, being a military man, John was quite sure that there was nothings in his day-to-day life that could still rile any sort of shock out of his body; it seemed as though his thrills and chills quota could only be satisfied from the danger provided by tagging along on cases brought to 221B.

This, however, proved to be incorrect, as John found that upon reacting to a noise from Sherlock's general direction, he was rewarded with a heaping spoonful of red goop flung directly onto his face.

"Are you a child? What—"

"That's what you get for refusing to help me."

And then the brunet scooped a spoonful from a nearby container and flung the strawberry jam across the kitchen floor and onto the crotch of John's trousers. John stared, incredulous.

The great Sherlock Homes had just started a food fight.

Standing up quickly, John grabbed as many Tupperware containers full of the red stuff as he could carry and ducked behind the kitchen table and chairs.

"You're doing my laundry tomorrow night, no excuses!" John yelled as he scooped up a lazy wallop of coagulating strawberries.

And in a glorious, .742 second arc, the strawberries sailed across the living room and landed atop the other man's curly mop of dark hair. A soft growl erupted from Sherlock's throat, and the consulting detective took up the containers from his side of the room. Braving the onslaught of rapid fire strawberry bits, he crossed the kitchen and emptied the containers atop John's raised-in-defense arms, smiling with a sinister but childlike satisfaction as the goop slid down his flatmates arm's and onto his chest.

"You're dead!"

John stood up quickly and lunged toward his opponent, quickly pinning him against the wall. With much grunting and maneuvering, his apron was soon removed, and John was grabbing the strawberry jam right from the container Sherlock was holding and stuffing it down the taller man's shirt, taking the time to smear it all over the pale man's smooth, hairless chest.

Then, with a swift shove, John sandwiched the jam between Sherlock and his shirt, wincing as he could feel the squelching of the cooked fruit through Sherlock's shirt against his own chest.

For a brief pause, John could feel his companion's chest heaving against his own, and exhilarated breath, speckled with laughter and exhaustion, warmed the spot just above his right ear. And, in that moment, John dared let his jam-covered hand linger against his friend's skin just at the nape of the neck as he massaged the sticky red stuff into Sherlock's dark locks. Slowly, John could feel himself growing half hard from the closeness of their bodies and intoxicating scent of strawberries lulling about heavily in the cooling kitchen air.

"And now you're doing _my_ laundry!"

Sherlock took advantage the momentary distraction and wrestled out of John's grasp. He swiftly took charge and pushed John against the kitchen counter, bending him over the granite counter top and trapping his uninjured arm behind his back. John's face landed in a lump of cooked strawberries and his free hand knocked over a colander of sliced, raw fruit.

"And _this_ is going right down your trousers!"

As a final act of triumph, Sherlock shoved the remainder of the jam down the front of his flatmate's trousers, against his pants.

A quiet moan escaped John's lips. Sherlock's hand paused beneath his flatmate's clothing. On instinct, John ground his hips against Sherlock's hand and a breathy sigh leaked out against the counter top. Sherlock sealed off the sound by pressing his jam-covered fingers against his partner's slightly parted lips.

To John's dismay, he slid his fingers out from the army doctor's trousers. Were he just a little less tipsy from adrenaline and endorphin rush, he would've noticed how Sherlock's arms lingered just a second longer around his waist. He would've noticed how Sherlock stood pressed against him, front to back, for the first time in their relationship, if only for a second.

But alas, food, hormones, and disappointment were ample distraction.

"This... is surprisingly edible," John remarked as he pulled away from both Sherlock and the counter.

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course it is. Has no one ever told you that 'cooking is chemistry'?"

The graceful man scraped red goop off the edge of his near-empty container with his index finger and reached over toward John's face. Confused, he let the detective's hand reach the tip of his nose and trail down across his lips to the spot just under the tip of his chin.

"You go shower upstairs. I'll clean up this mess down here."

"Wait, but you _never_—"

"_I_ will clean the mess, John," he insisted. "I _can_ be courteous every once in a while. Please, just go upstairs."

John began heading toward the upstairs shower to resolve his pants problem in peace, but not before turning around at the edge of the kitchen and shooting Sherlock a grateful grin.

"I'll do your laundry then."

"Deal."

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><p>Okay, so I may or may not write a part two to this. I really want to. But it's hard to write pronz when I'm in Taiwan with my mom. And she can read over my shoulder at any time.<p>

Anyway, if you're interested, I'll be writing here and on tumblr now under "JamMoritarty." And, yes, if any of you are from the Sherlock livestream... I am that same Jam. ;]

_Petites Bisous,_  
><em>Mini <em>


	2. Part Two

I actually ended up not wanting to write this at all... but hey. I've delivered somehow even after my gigantic writing hiatus. Enjoy~

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><p><strong>Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Kitchen Warrior<strong>

John Watson stood under the shower spray taking deep, humid breaths as an effort to calm himself. The commotion downstairs was truly something he had never even imagined was possible. The remaining strawberry substance had dried on his skin like a fruit peel. Vaguely, he wondered if it had any skin nourishing qualities as it felt a lot like the fruit peel masks Harry made him use when they were younger.

And the way Sherlock looked covered in jam was... It was almost as if Sherlock knew about John's recently-realized penchant for food. Coming back from a war zone where food wasn't nearly as varied or available as this did something to him; it made him appreciate the small things about texture, taste, cleanliness just that much more. But Sherlock had probably already guessed he had that little kink. Just because he wasn't a consulting detective didn't mean he lacked observation skills of his own. He knew how Sherlock watched him take the time to enjoy his food. Well, that and how he got off just a little bit when he was able to watch Sherlock enjoy his own food after a long, hard case.

Sherlock would close his eyes and hum in that deep, drawn out way that melted into an almost half-groan. That was probably the closest Sherlock had ever gotten to experiencing an orgasm, being the brilliant and asexual eccentric he was.

Sherlock having an orgasm.

There was something he'd never see in his lifetime.

He'd never met a more sexually ambivalent human being before. God, before he'd met Sherlock, he always considered himself primarily straight but open-minded about his sexual orientation, but something about the way that he moved, that darkness in his eyes when he scrutinized a person or a piece of evidence. The way his lips would part lightly when he realized something light years before anyone else could.

From the moment they first met, doctor Watson was enchanted.

Sometimes John Watson would catch himself wanting to push those bony but wide shoulders against a wall and shove his body right into Sherlock's personal space, attack that long, certainly serpentine neck of his with his lips and teeth and slide his hands—

"_Fuck._"

So much for calming down.

The heat from the shower water scattered across his right shoulder as he leaned against the wall and began stroking the problem between his thighs. Letting his eyes slide shut, John Watson could just begin to imagine his flatmate's body pressed against his right side, hands replacing his own, and mouth teasing the skin along his face and neck.

And he could just feel that brilliant man's fingers sliding across his skin, stroking his shaft the way he would his violin when he absentmindedly stared out the window. He could feel the way those elegant fingers would dig into his hip bones as the taller man would push him up against the wall, the way that sharp tongue would find its way to his pulse points...

"Sh... _Sherlock_..."

When he opened his eyes, he found himself disappointingly alone and feeling slightly guilty. He watched the low-pressure spray from the old shower head slowly wipe away the evidence of what had just transpired from his hands. There are certain things you can't do without now being able to look at

Without giving it another thought, the ex-army doctor unhooked the loofah from a hook coming out of the shower wall and squeezed a sizable amount of Sherlock's body wash onto it. He tried to pretend that he did this because he was out of soap, but the bar was sitting in the trashcan in his room, half used and quite puffy looking.

He was just about to begin washing when the sound of the bathroom door unlocking caught his attention.

"Sh-Sherlock! Do you mind?"

No answer. Through the fogged glass he could see a lanky figure moving and stretching along the doorway. This action was soon followed by the fumbling of fingers with what sounded like a zipper and the subsequent sound of trousers dropping to the ground.

"Sherlock! For God's sake, what are you doing in here?"

The detective smirked and removed the last of his clothes. With a swift glide, he joined his doctor under the spray and took the loofah from his hands.

"I told you I could clean the mess, didn't I?"

And for the first time since he'd moved in with Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson was shocked from something that should have been absolutely normal. Unable to strip away his eyes, he took in the lithe thighs, the slight trail of hair that led to a half-hard cock, the pale plane that made up Sherlock's sternum, and the place where that damn long neck of his connected with his jaw and those perfectly bowed lips...

Sherlock chuckled. Slender fingers plucked the loofah from his hands and hooked it back onto the shower wall.

"Now are you using my things because you're running out, or because you like my smell?"

John smirked at him, feeling surprisingly steady when he answered, "I'm sure you already know the answer."

"I found the soap in the bin." Sherlock pressed closer to the ex-army doctor. "How wasteful."

"Is that why you're in here?" John inquired through shortening breaths. He felt a full erection press against his hip. "Come to save the planet?"

"Yes," the sylph-like man smiled and slid his hands up his flatmate's sides. Tingles flowed up John's spine. "Care to join me?

"I don't know. Will it be..." John traced his fingers up the back of the lanky man's thigh, "... dangerous?"

"Yes." Sherlock leaned down and let his lips graze against John's. John flicked out his tongue and traced the seam between Sherlock's smiling lips. "So?"

The detective pressed forward caught John's lower lip between his teeth.

"Then yes... Oh, God, _yes_."

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><p>Heehee~! I tried to keep them in character.<br>Hope I made you squirm. ;9

_Petites Bisous,  
>Mini<em>


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